Disclaimer:
Harry Potter and all of its characters belong to J.K. Rowling.
ASOIAF and all of its characters belong to GRRM
I own nothing but the original characters I make.
"Dialogue"
'Thoughts'
-Author notes-
Chapter 37: Promise
The room was dark, filled with the musty smell of old stone. Joffrey stepped through the hidden passage, a heavy sack slung over his shoulder, and found himself facing the glittering edge of a Valyrian steel dagger.
"Put that down before you cut yourself, Lord Stark." His voice was calm, almost bored. "I won't be held responsible for any injuries you sustain at this late hour."
"J-Joffrey?" Ned Stark's voice emerged from behind a stack of crates, the blade wavering. He looked pale, unshaven, his Stark grey eyes hollow with days of confinement. The fine clothes they had given him hung loose on his frame, as if he had shrunk inside them.
"Who else? Did Varys tell you nothing?" Joffrey set the sack down with a grunt. The weight of it had been considerable even for his magically enhanced strength after carrying it all the way to this basement.
Lord Varys stepped out from behind another stack of crates, his soft hands folded before him. "There was no time for explanations. The guards' patrol routes changed tonight. We had to move quickly."
Ned's gaze dropped to the sack at Joffrey's feet. Even in the dim light filtering through cracks in the stone, its shape was unmistakable...rounded, bulging, the kind of sack that held something more precious than coin.
His face went white. "What's in there? Are they my—"
"No." Joffrey cut him off before the hope could take root. "The contents of that sack have nothing to do with you at the moment."
Ned's hand tightened on the dagger. "Varys told me my daughters were being rescued. Where are they? I will not leave this place without them."
Joffrey met his gaze without flinching. "I sent someone for them. Someone trustworthy. But the Tower of the Hand is far from the dungeons. We may have to wait for a bit."
Varys had already moved to the far wall, his fingers tracing the stones, searching for the mechanism that would open the passage to the bay.
Ned watched him work, his knuckles white around the dagger's hilt.
"Very well." The words came out hard, forced through clenched teeth. "I'll wait."
Joffrey said nothing. Let the man glare. He had his reasons for pulling Ned Stark from the jaws of his mother's vengeance, and those reasons had nothing to do with gratitude or approval.
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Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. The silence stretched like a wire pulled taut, ready to snap.
Joffrey's head lifted. His hearing had always been sharper than most, and these days it was sharper still...magic had a way of sharpening the senses.
He could hear the footsteps now, too many of them, pounding against stone. He could hear the ragged breath of people running, the frantic beat of hearts pushed to their limit.
They were terrified. They were running. And behind them, a dozen men gave chase.
"We've been spotted." Joffrey's voice cut through the darkness.
Varys looked up from the lock he was picking, his face unreadable. "I have not heard the bell."
The great bell of the Red Keep would ring in times of emergency, like an escape, an attack, a death. Its silence meant that the rest of the castle did not yet know what was happening.
"They don't know about us yet." Joffrey moved toward the passage, toward the sounds of pursuit. He pointed at the two men. "You. Get to the boat. I'll make sure the girls make it."
He thrust the sack into Ned's arms. The lord caught it with a grunt, his arms buckling slightly under the unexpected weight. His eyes went wide as he realized what he was holding.
"Go." Joffrey was already turning, already walking toward the sound of running feet and pounding hearts.
He met them at the tunnel's mouth, four figures, running as if all the hounds of hell were at their heels. Sansa's face was white as milk, her red hair wild, her fine nightgown torn at the shoulder.
Jeyne Poole stumbled behind her, sobbing, her small hand crushed in Sansa's grip. Arya came next, her sword drawn, her grey eyes blazing, and behind her, bringing up the rear, was Saera, his maid and his most faithful servant.
"Keep going!" Joffrey waved them forward. "Get inside!"
They poured past him, gasping, crying, stumbling into the darkness of the storeroom. He saw Sansa's face for a moment as she passed, a mixture of relief, fear, and hope, all tangled together...then she was gone.
The guards were close now. He could see their torches flickering at the far end of the tunnel, could hear their shouts echoing off the stone.
He placed his palm against the wall and reached for the familiar current of magic that flowed through him. It came easily now, as easily as breathing, as easily as thought.
He shaped it with his mind, wove it into the pattern he had learned so many years ago, in another life, in another world.
The ward settled around the storeroom entrance like a shroud.
The guards burst into the tunnel just as the last of the girls disappeared from sight.
A dozen men in gold cloaks, swords drawn, torches held high. Their captain was a hard-faced man with a scar across his cheek, the kind of man who had seen too much to be surprised by anything.
He stopped at the junction where the tunnel split, his eyes scanning left, then right. His gaze passed over Joffrey without seeing him. Passed over the open door without registering it.
"They couldn't have gone far," the captain growled. "Split up. Teams of two. Search every room. Now."
The guards scattered, their torches casting wild shadows on the walls.
Joffrey watched them go, watched them pass within arm's reach of the open door without a flicker of awareness. The anti-muggle ward was doing its work, bending their senses, convincing their minds that there was nothing here worth seeing.
He waited until the last torch had disappeared down the corridor, until the sound of booted feet had faded to silence. Then he stepped back through the door, pulled it closed, and ran.
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The boat was waiting at the water's edge, a dark shape against the darker water of the bay. Joffrey vaulted over the side, landing hard on the wooden planks, and grabbed the oars before anyone could speak.
"Joffrey!" Sansa's voice was high, breathless, and she would have thrown herself at him if her father had not caught her arm.
"Later." He set the oars against the water, pulled, and the boat slid away from the shore. "Talk later. Now, we need to move."
"The docks?" Ned's voice was sharp. He was still holding the sack, cradling it against his chest like a child.
"The docks." Joffrey pulled again, and the boat picked up speed. "I have a ship waiting. It will take you north. White Harbor, then Winterfell. You'll be home before the moon turns."
"Home." Arya breathed the word like a prayer.
Even Sansa, who had dreamed so long of the capital, of its knights and its songs and its glittering court, seemed to soften at the thought. "Home," she echoed her sister's sentiment.
Ned was looking at Joffrey with something that might have been respect, or might have been fear. "You planned this. From the beginning. You never meant to take the throne."
Joffrey's laugh was soft, almost soundless. "I told you that, Lord Stark. Did I not?."
"I didn't believe you." Ned's voice was raw. "Who would refuse a crown?"
"You would, if you knew what it cost." Joffrey pulled the oars again, and the boat glided past a rotting pier, past a beached fishing skiff, past the hulking shadows of the ships at anchor. "But that's a conversation for another time. Right now, I need to open it up."
He nodded toward the sack in Ned's arms.
"What—" Ned began, but Varys was already there, his nimble fingers working the knots. The cloth fell away, and the moonlight fell on two sleeping faces.
Sansa gasped. Jeyne cried out. Even Arya, who had seen so much and learned to hide her feelings behind a wall of bravery, let out a small, startled sound.
"Myrcella." Sansa's hand flew to her mouth. "And Tommen. You brought...you took—"
"Are they dead?." Arya asked.
"They're fine." Joffrey's voice was matter-of-fact. "Asleep, but safe. I just gave them a sleeping potion. They'll wake in a day, hungry and confused, but alive."
Ned stared at the children...the children who were not Robert's, who had been raised to believe a lie, who were as innocent as his own daughters and as doomed if they remained in King's Landing. "The Queen," he said slowly, "will go berserk."
"Yes." Joffrey smiled, and there was something terrible in that smile, something that made even Varys look away. "I do wish I could see her face."
He pulled the oars one last time, and the boat slid into the shadow of a great ship. Ropes descended from above, and hands reached down to pull them up.
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The deck was crowded with shadows. Sailors moved in the darkness, their faces hidden, their voices low.
Coils of rope lay everywhere, and crates of provisions were stacked against the rail, and there, in the center of it all, stood a dwarf with mismatched eyes and a grin that split his face in two.
"Lord Tyrion." Ned's voice was flat, almost expressionless. He had climbed aboard with his daughters, had seen them safely to the rail, and had watched the sailors help his children onto the ship that would carry them north. Now he stood before the younger son of Tywin Lannister.
Tyrion spread his hands, his grin widening. "You sound surprised, Lord Stark."
"You were involved in this." It was not a question.
"Why wouldn't I be?. I am Joffrey's favorite uncle. And apparently, an excellent merchant as well. Wont you say?." He pointed at the two ships. "I got them from a gentleman from the Stepstones."
Ned's gaze moved to both vessels. " You bought pirate ships," he said, and there was disapproval in his voice despite himself.
Joffrey stepped between them. "One of those pirate ships is about to carry you and your daughters home, Lord Stark. I would think you'd be grateful."
Ned's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
"Everything ready?" Joffrey had turned to a figure standing apart from the others, a man wrapped in a dark cloak, his face hidden in shadow.
The Hound pulled back his hood, and the torchlight caught the ruin of his face. "Aye. Everything's on board. Supplies for three months, maps of the eastern coast, enough gold to buy your way out of any trouble you can't fight your way out of." He glanced at the second ship. "She's ready to sail when you are."
Joffrey nodded. "One more thing." He raised his voice. "Boy!"
A young man stepped forward from the shadows, broad-shouldered, dark-haired, his arms wrapped around a long wooden box.
He knelt before Joffrey, setting the box at his feet. "Your Grace. The armor. Master Mott said it was the finest work he'd ever done." A pause. "He said he'd never made anything like it before."
Joffrey waved him up. "I'm sure it will serve." He looked at the boy, Gendry, the armorer's apprentice, the dead king's bastard. He gestured to one of the sailors. "Take it aboard. Carefully."
The seaman lifted the box and moved toward the larger ship, the one that would carry the prince east. Ned's eyes followed him.
Joffrey did not give him time to speak. He turned to the second ship, the one that would carry the Starks north. "That vessel will take you to White Harbor, as I mentioned before. Lord Manderly is loyal to House Stark. He'll see you safely to Winterfell."
Ned's face was unreadable. "My house owes you a debt we cannot repay, Prince Joffrey."
"You can repay it." Joffrey nodded toward the corner of the deck where his brother and sister still slept, wrapped in blankets, their faces peaceful in the moonlight. "Take them with you and keep them safe."
Ned stared at the children, the golden-haired boy and girl who were not Robert's, who had been raised in a lie they did not understand, who were as much victims of Cersei's ambition as anyone in the Seven Kingdoms.
"Why?" The word was rough, scraped raw.
Joffrey met his eyes. "Because Stannis will never stop hunting them. Renly, either, if he ever gets his hands on the throne.
As long as they live, they are threats to any Baratheon claim. My mother will protect them as long as she can, but she is not... she does not think clearly where her children are concerned. She will make mistakes. People will die."
He looked at Tommen, at Myrcella, at the small, sleeping faces that held no trace of the mother who would tear the world apart to keep them safe. "They deserve better than to be pawns in a game they did not choose."
Ned was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was heavy. "The rumors. About their birth. About—"
"About whether they are Robert's children?" Joffrey's laugh was soft, almost sad. "They are not. But that is not their fault. And it should not be their death."
He held Ned's gaze. "Can I trust you, Lord Stark? Can I trust you to keep them safe, to keep them from Stannis and Renly and anyone else who would use them?"
Ned looked at the children, then at his own daughters, then back at Joffrey. "I will," he said, and his voice was iron. "I swear it. By the old gods and the new. I will keep them safe."
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